078: When it Comes to Injustice, There is Only One Humane Option
I grew up in a small town with one school. On year, a new family moved there. Their child went to my school—same year, same classes. This child selected a handful of other children, me included, and turned themselves into our bully. They would never physically harm us. Instead they disrespected our boundaries ("Please don't touch my pencils," I said, and they grabbed a fistful), lied to our faces ("I know you grabbed my pencils," I said, and they leeringly denied it), taunting us ("Why can't you just kick the football?" they asked and laughed when I left the football field in tears).
It would happen just before classes, between classes, or after classes. The majority of our classmates ignored it.
Since we were a handful of children being bullied, however, the school soon became aware of it.
And they did nothing.
Our parents talked to our teachers. To our principal. To each other. To the parents of the bully. Everyone knew that we were being bullied, and we and our parents repeatedly asked the school to do something—anything.
Because we came home in tears.
Because we did not want to go to school anymore.
Because we closed up and stopped speaking.
But the school did nothing.
Some of the parents started to give up. Some of us were left to deal with our bully on our own. Thankfully my parents looked elsewhere for support. They took me and my sister to after-school activities in neighbouring municipalities, to summer camps, or simply took us out of school for several weeks to homeschool us while travelling. Once they enrolled us in a school abroad, and we thrived.
When we came home, everything would improve for a while, and then we fell back into the same routine of classes and bullying and inaction in school.
Those of my classmates that had gone unaffected or had given up remained silent. Even I remained silent in school. Only once, after two years of bullying, did I tell my bully to, "Shut up!" One of my classmates told me I was incredibly brave, and with blood boiling in my ears I felt a sense of pride.
Five minutes later a teacher came and asked my to apologise, or my grades would suffer. The classmate said nothing, and I learned that if I wanted to do well in school, speaking up was not worth it.
After another year I was thoroughly isolated. I did not trust my classmates. I did not trust my teachers. I did not trust my school. I buried myself in books, art, and writing, and knew next to nothing of how friendships and social relations were supposed to work.
Then I was hit by a stroke of luck. Someone else moved to our town—an amazingly nerdy and artsy and vibrant person. The classroom would brighten at their presence. For some reason they chose to befriend me (not without difficulty, I think, because I remember spending a lot of time crying in the bathroom), and when the bully hid my pencils or picked at me during breaks, this new person spoke up. They asked the bully to leave me alone. And the bully did.
It was a serious eye-opener.
The new person became my best friend. Over the years my shell of silence broke and I learned to stand up to the bully. I still remember with joy the school-year when I turned sixteen: during lunch breaks my best friend and I would get into tickle fights or go chasing each other down the corridor until we collapsed against the wall, laughing, or we would sit together and draw or read.
On one of these occasions we were sitting next to each other in the corridor and the bully came out of the classroom. "Hey, are guys dating or something?" they asked scornfully.
My best friend tensed and started to tell the bully to shut up and mind their own business, but I interrupted with a hand on their arm.
Turning to the bully, I beamed and said, "Go away."
And the bully did.
This is a story about silence in a white community, and it has a happy ending. I learned to break my silence, and to make myself heard with respect to the one person who was causing me grief. It is a lesson that might have been learned sooner and reinforced better, had the system—my classmates, my teachers, my school—listened and acted.
Right now there are hundreds and thousands of people demanding to be heard—demanding that a system built on racism and prejudice be changed. So therefore I ask, from one white person to another: are we going to turn away and ignore them, like my classmates, teachers, and school did when I was being bullied? Or will we listen and act on what we hear?
I give two options, but in all honesty, I see only a single humane one.
Written by: Katrine H. (@katrinehjulstad on Instagram)
It would happen just before classes, between classes, or after classes. The majority of our classmates ignored it.
Since we were a handful of children being bullied, however, the school soon became aware of it.
And they did nothing.
Our parents talked to our teachers. To our principal. To each other. To the parents of the bully. Everyone knew that we were being bullied, and we and our parents repeatedly asked the school to do something—anything.
Because we came home in tears.
Because we did not want to go to school anymore.
Because we closed up and stopped speaking.
But the school did nothing.
Some of the parents started to give up. Some of us were left to deal with our bully on our own. Thankfully my parents looked elsewhere for support. They took me and my sister to after-school activities in neighbouring municipalities, to summer camps, or simply took us out of school for several weeks to homeschool us while travelling. Once they enrolled us in a school abroad, and we thrived.
When we came home, everything would improve for a while, and then we fell back into the same routine of classes and bullying and inaction in school.
Those of my classmates that had gone unaffected or had given up remained silent. Even I remained silent in school. Only once, after two years of bullying, did I tell my bully to, "Shut up!" One of my classmates told me I was incredibly brave, and with blood boiling in my ears I felt a sense of pride.
Five minutes later a teacher came and asked my to apologise, or my grades would suffer. The classmate said nothing, and I learned that if I wanted to do well in school, speaking up was not worth it.
After another year I was thoroughly isolated. I did not trust my classmates. I did not trust my teachers. I did not trust my school. I buried myself in books, art, and writing, and knew next to nothing of how friendships and social relations were supposed to work.
Then I was hit by a stroke of luck. Someone else moved to our town—an amazingly nerdy and artsy and vibrant person. The classroom would brighten at their presence. For some reason they chose to befriend me (not without difficulty, I think, because I remember spending a lot of time crying in the bathroom), and when the bully hid my pencils or picked at me during breaks, this new person spoke up. They asked the bully to leave me alone. And the bully did.
It was a serious eye-opener.
The new person became my best friend. Over the years my shell of silence broke and I learned to stand up to the bully. I still remember with joy the school-year when I turned sixteen: during lunch breaks my best friend and I would get into tickle fights or go chasing each other down the corridor until we collapsed against the wall, laughing, or we would sit together and draw or read.
On one of these occasions we were sitting next to each other in the corridor and the bully came out of the classroom. "Hey, are guys dating or something?" they asked scornfully.
My best friend tensed and started to tell the bully to shut up and mind their own business, but I interrupted with a hand on their arm.
Turning to the bully, I beamed and said, "Go away."
And the bully did.
This is a story about silence in a white community, and it has a happy ending. I learned to break my silence, and to make myself heard with respect to the one person who was causing me grief. It is a lesson that might have been learned sooner and reinforced better, had the system—my classmates, my teachers, my school—listened and acted.
Right now there are hundreds and thousands of people demanding to be heard—demanding that a system built on racism and prejudice be changed. So therefore I ask, from one white person to another: are we going to turn away and ignore them, like my classmates, teachers, and school did when I was being bullied? Or will we listen and act on what we hear?
I give two options, but in all honesty, I see only a single humane one.
Written by: Katrine H. (@katrinehjulstad on Instagram)
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